Page 28 of Forced Plus-Size Bride of the Bratva

Finally, in a voice so tight I almost don’t catch it, she speaks.

“Why?” Her fingers flex in her lap, knotting the hem of her shirt. “Why are you doing this?”

I don’t answer.

I let the silence stretch, let her sit in it. Feel it. Let her imagine a hundred answers, each worse than the last. The stillness makes her shift slightly, the first crack in her composure. Her legs uncurl, but she stays rooted. Her body wants to move. She doesn’t let it.

Only then do I speak—low, steady, measured.

“Your father took something from me.”

Her breath catches. She leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing, searching my face like she might find a lie tucked between the lines. I wonder how many lies she’s been told. How many half-truths dressed as love. I wonder if she knows justhow much her father never gave a damn about her beyond her usefulness.

“Something I can never get back,” I add. “So I’m doing the same.”

She blinks. Once. Then again. “You think I’m… what? A replacement?”

“No,” I say. “You’re the reminder. The weight. Every breath you take here is a ledger mark. Every hour you survive under my roof is another page torn from what your father built.”

She stares at me like I’m a monster. Maybe I am., but I don’t care. I’ve stopped asking myself whether I crossed the line. That question died with Maxim.

“He loves you,” I say, watching her flinch again. “Not in the way you need, but enough that this hurts him. That’s what I want.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her throat works. I can see her trying to swallow the fear, the anger. She wants to scream at me. I almost wish she would. It would be easier than this brittle silence between us. Easier than her quiet war.

“So this is revenge,” she says, voice rasping. “That’s all this is.”

I don’t deny it, but I don’t confirm it either.

I lean in slightly, elbows on my knees, my voice dropping lower. “You’re here because he made a choice. Now you live with it.”

Her lips part, breath trembling out of her. For a second, I think she might cry. She doesn’t. She blinks it back, jaw tightening until it’s almost painful to watch. She won’t break.

Not yet.

That only makes me want to push harder. Just to see how far she can bend before she shatters.

“Tell me,” I murmur, “how long do you think you’ll last?”

“I’ll outlast you,” she snaps, eyes blazing.

It makes me smile. Not because she’s wrong, because she believes she’s right.

“You think strength means screaming at doors,” I say. “It doesn’t. Strength is silence. It’s enduring. Quietly. Day after day.”

She doesn’t answer, but her fingers curl tighter around her shirt, and that’s all I need.

I rise slowly, towering above her once again. For a moment, I don’t move. I just watch the way she tilts her head back to hold my gaze, proud even now. Her shoulders are set like armor. Her fear is hidden, locked away.

“If you want the food, eat it,” I say, nodding toward the tray. “If you want answers, earn them.”

Her head lifts sharply. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you stay. You watch. You learn who your father really is. Then, when you understand what I’ve done, you can decide if I’m the villain—or if he is.”

She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. Something in her eyes shifts. Maybe doubt. Maybe something colder. I can’t tell yet. I’ll find out.

I’ve made my point. I’ve delivered the food. Spun the knife of truth just deep enough to leave her bleeding without breaking skin.

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